


Cotton Down

by UmbreonLibris



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Original Character(s), Photography, Pokemon Sword & Shield Spoilers, Pokemon as food, Pokémon Aging, Post-Canon, References Past Pokémon Death, Slice of Life, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbreonLibris/pseuds/UmbreonLibris
Summary: I'm back home in Galar on assignment. It's been a few years, but my relationship with my father never seems to change."When will you pick up the Poké Balls again?" he asks me. "Have you done any training?""Dad. You know I don't have time for that.""There's good money in being a trainer. And you were good at it!""My job pays well too, you know. And I'm very good at it.""Oh sure," he says, forcing the sincerity just a bit too far. "But there's no fame in pictures.""Millions of people see my photographs, Dad."He waves his hand as if that doesn't matter. I sigh. Our dialogue is the same every time.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Cotton Down

**Author's Note:**

> You can listen to my reading of this story on YouTube: <https://youtu.be/2p-T5RZ4AIg>

The air shudders with energy and the challenger's Corvisquire glows with the electric red of the dynamax energy that flows through it. The Corvisquire grows and crows in a voice so deep it feels disembodied. I grip my seat, hoping Milo will trigger his Eldegoss's own dynamax.

But he doesn't. Milo only gestures at Eldegoss. From way up here in the stands it's impossible to hear them, but it's easy to imagine the trainers issuing their commands. Eldegoss fluffs up its enormous soft helmet with a Cotton Guard, and braces for the impact.

The challenger thrusts his finger forward. Corvisquire flaps its gigantic wings, whipping up a Max Airstream so powerful that even through the stadium's protections we can still feel the gusts of wind. Eldegoss is thrown backward, crashes into the wall.

"Come on," yells someone behind me. "Get up!" Someone farther away swears loudly.

I glance at my father beside me. His jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed. "Corvisquire will be too fast," he says, mostly to himself. His fists clasp the edge of his seat just like mine.

Eldegoss springs upright. So does my father, punching the air with a barked "Yes!" Eldegoss was hurt, but the Cotton Guard did its job. I'm on my feet as well now.

Milo triggers dynamax. There's that familiar shudder, a rush of inexplicable energy. Even when you're not at the stadium, not even watching the battle at all, when a Pokémon dynamaxes it makes you feel alive.

But it's too late for Milo. With the winds now blowing in its favour, Corvisquire is too fast—just like my father said—and it gets two more Max Airstreams off. Eldegoss survives the first and counters with a Max Strike, but falls to the second.

* * *

"He put up a good fight," says my father. We're shuffling out of the stadium, a mass of people energized by the adrenaline of the battle but also quieted by another loss. This isn't uncommon.

"Should have dynamaxed sooner," says a stranger next to us. He doesn't sound upset, though, and I can tell from his accent he's not a Turffield local. Maybe he is one of the tourists who go around following the Gym Challenge.

"Wouldn't be Milo if he didn't falter," I say. It always happens against a challenger, a fresh face. Milo is skilled, we all know that—being from here isn't the only thing that keeps us coming to watch his matches. But he has a tendency to go easy on young trainers, not wanting to discourage them when he's their first real challenge. He still wins sometimes, but it feels like the bigger the match, the bigger the opponent, the better Milo battles. He can defeat Piers, even Raihan, but struggles against a newcomer.

"Arceus-damned League team," says someone else. Definitely a local. Milo fans love to complain about his League-mandated Gym Challenge team, that it's too samey and predictable. After any Gym Challenge loss you can hear someone grumble that, "If only Milo could use his _real_ team…" They're not wrong, but I don't watch enough battles these days for them to get monotonous.

* * *

My hotel is only a couple blocks from the stadium, so my father walks there with me. He parked his car out there, where the competition for parking spots isn't so fierce.

"I think Challenger Blake really surprised Milo," my dad says. "You don't always see a Meowth that knows Night Slash around here. That critical hit it got on Gossifleur right off the bat made a big difference."

"Definitely not one of those Meowth from Route Four," I say. There's a Meowth colony that lives out there, close to the mines. That was where I met my own Meowth, Daggers, the first Pokémon I ever caught myself. Daggers was a feisty battler, but somehow was also a lazy lap cat, even after he grew into a Perrserker. He passed away last year. I miss him.

I feel tears welling up, and to distract myself I focus on Milo's battle, and try to think of something I can comment on. But I'm too out of touch with battling and can't come up with anything.

Nowadays, I watch Milo's battles on the telly when I can, but even then it's often only on in the background while I do something else. Not my father, though. He's turning sixty soon and for the fifty years he's lived in these parts, he has attended every single one of the local gym leader's matches. He's seen two other Leaders at Turffield Gym before Milo, but claims Milo is his favourite. And he will watch every single match of the Champion Cup, even the ones Milo isn't in. He just loves the sport that much.

"The challenger was well prepared," is the best I can muster. I'm just trying to contribute something to the conversation. "The team was well trained." I'm not contributing.

My father doesn't say anything as we round the corner toward the hotel entrance. I appreciate the respite, not having to flail around in this conversation any longer. But I also know what he's about to say.

"When will you pick up the Poké Balls again? Have you done any training?"

"Dad. You know I don't have time for that."

"There's good money in being a trainer. And you were good at it!"

"My job pays well too, you know. And I'm very good at it."

"Oh sure," he says, forcing the sincerity just a bit too far. "But there's no _fame_ in pictures."

"Millions of people see my photographs, Dad."

He waves his hand as if that doesn't matter. I sigh. Our dialogue is the same every time.

"I'll see you tomorrow for dinner," I say. "Tell Mom I'll bring Passho with me."

I give him an awkward hug, which he returns just as awkwardly, and I head upstairs.

* * *

I walk up to my parents' house with Passho in my arms. She was my starter Pokémon, a gift from my parents. It's always a bit awkward carrying her, because her cotton is so poofy, but she doesn't always have the energy to float next to me like she used to. Mom opens the door and Passho immediately jumps out of my arms and into hers.

"Passho, sweetie, how are you?" Passho lets out a long squeal. "Hi honey," Mom says to me. She ushers Passho into the house and gives me a long hug. "Come on in. Passho's fluff is looking a little dull, isn't it?"

"It's been like that for a couple of years. From what I've read, that's pretty normal for a Whimsicott her age." I hear the bobbing chirps of Mom's Bounsweet, Prince, echoing down the hall. Prince and Passho only met once before, when my parents came to visit me after their trip to Castelia two or three years ago, but I guess they remember each other. "Is Dad home?"

Mom leads me into the dining room. "He took Fuji out sparring with his old linguist buddies. He should be back soon." Fuji is my father's Orbeetle, the only Pokémon my father ever got to raise and train. Fuji has outlasted the average lifespan of his species by at least three times by now, but remains just as eager for a battle as my father.

"Do you need any help in the kitchen?" I ask.

"Actually, yes, thank you, honey. We're having roasted Farfetch'd, your favourite." I follow her into the kitchen and am greeted by the wonderful smell of a basted Farfetch'd in the oven. Suddenly I feel incredibly hungry. "I just need to work on the vinaigrette, so if you can put together the salad, that would be wonderful. In the fridge there's a pack of salad mix, some Leppa Berries and I got a Revival Herb as well."

I get to work on cutting the Leppas into little cubes. Mom tells me about their new neighbours, about an article she read online with some bogus theory that Chairman Rose had been falsely imprisoned. About the new supplier she is working with at her flower shop. Every once in a while Passho and Prince interrupt us, play-fighting around our legs. I think about Roz, Mom's old Roserade, who was almost like a mentor to Passho. A lot has changed since the last time I came home, but at the same time, not a lot has.

We finish preparing the food and take everything out to the dinner table. The scent makes my stomach growl like an Arcanine. The roasted Farfetch'd looks perfect. Back home in Nacrene, all the farmed Farfetch'd are of the Kantonian variety, but the Galarian ones have a much richer flavour. They have tougher meat, too, but Mom knows what she's doing.

There's no sign of my father yet, and he left his Rotom Phone at home like he always does. I have no idea why he bothered getting one in the first place. Mom and I put some dry Pokémon food out for Passho and Prince, and sit at the dinner table waiting for him to show up.

* * *

My father whistles when he comes in, his usual way of letting everyone know he is home. It sounds almost like the call of a Rookidee. Normally I find it nostalgic.

Fuji flies into the room and makes some odd screeches that I think mean he's happy to see me. He repeats them when he notices Passho eating. My father follows him in, gives my mom a kiss and pats me on the back and takes a seat. He doesn't acknowledge how long he's been gone, just immediately starts carving the Farfetch'd and serving himself. Then he hands me the knife, and I offer to serve Mom first.

The Farfecth'd isn't quite cold yet, but it's not what anyone would call hot. Still, it tastes great, and Mom's Swinub-bacon vinaigrette adds a minty kick that I was never able to replicate properly when I tried making this myself.

While we eat, Mom continues updating me on the local affairs. Apparently there was some attempted vandalism at the Geoglyph. Some ruffians from Hulbury.

"But ever since that incident with the Stow-on-Side mural," Mom says, "Tuffield Police officers have been stationed at the geoglyph. There was a little battle on the hill, though, and one of the boys had a Carkol, so the grass there is a bit charred. So then Richard— Do you remember Richard? He used to work at the Turffield Historical Society with your father."

"The one with the really big Noctowl, right? I think it was named Roost."

"That's right. Well, Richard works for Galarian Heritage now, and he asked me to send in someone who could help restore the grass. Ellen is taking a Grookey there on Thursday."

I wonder what the vandals' motivation was, but before I can ask, my father cuts in. "Is the magazine still making money?"

"Uh, I—well…" I fumble for a moment, nearly dizzied by the turn in the conversation. "Every magazine has taken a bit of a hit in the last few years. Newspaper and book publishers too, I think. Now that everyone's carrying a Rotom Phone, the demand for print is going down a lot. But _Pokémon Pal_ has one of the biggest circulations in the world, so for now we're still okay, as far as I know."

"I guess they can still afford to send you on expensive overseas assignments," he says with a chuckle. "Maybe you can use this vacation to pick up battling again."

"Not a vacation, Dad. And I already told you, I don't want to be a trainer again."

"Don't you miss the excitement? The stadiums, the crowds? And you have so much talent!"

"No, Dad." We have had this exact conversation before. "The battles themselves, sure, I enjoyed that. But I hated being on a stadium battlefield. That was a lot of pressure. All those people there to see you make a mistake. And most of them cheering for the Gym Leader, just hoping you'll flop. I hated it."

"You could get used to it. Maybe you'd feel differently about that now. I just hate to see your talent go to waste."

"My _talent_?" I'm raising my voice now, not something I usually do with my parents. "My Pokémon training career lasted, what, six months? I have been a _successful_ professional photographer for nine years now. Can _you_ get used to _that_ , please?" Then I chuckle without humour, and hope my father will drop it.

Mom tries to salvage the situation. "I really liked your photo essay about the flower fields in Alola," she says. It's not my most recent, but she knows how proud of it I am. "I loved how there was always an Oricorio somewhere in the—"

"I still think you gave up too soon," my father interrupts. "You quit with only three badges."

"I lost to Melony three times before I quit, Dad." Circhester was fourth on the Gym Challenge circuit back then. " _Three times._ Do you know how shitty that felt?" I almost never swear in front of my parents. "But I kept trying because I didn't want to let you down. Even Melony herself noticed my heart wasn't in it. And she's famous for being a cold—well, you know."

My father huffs. "You could have won. You just needed good Fire-type Pokémon, or Steel."

I slam my utensils on the table. "So now Daggers wasn't good enough for you?" I stand up. "Fuck you, Dad."

* * *

Mom finds me lying in my childhood bed, Passho in my arms and my face buried in her cotton. Passho is using Safeguard, which always makes me feel better when I'm stressed out.

"I brought you the rest of your dinner," Mom says. She puts my plate on my bedside table. "I also brought you some extra you can take with you. Are you feeling okay?"

I wipe my face on my arms. "I will," I say quietly. "Oh—sorry, Passho, I didn't mean to get snot on your fluff." Mom and I laugh.

"I'll grab a tissue," Mom says. Passo squeaks, but I don't think she noticed the snot.

Mom and I talk for a while longer in my room. As usual, she offers to put me up, says that's what they've kept my room untouched for. But I tell her—and she knows—that I don't like depending on my father anymore. And I have to make an early start in the morning—this isn't a vacation, after all. Passho and I go back to the hotel without seeing my father again.

* * *

I spend the week travelling around Galar. Monday and Tuesday I camp out at the Lake of Outrage, photographing the landscapes and the wildlife. For several hours, I stalk a pack of Pokémon from the Eevee family. Nowhere else in the world—that we know of so far, anyway—can Eevee evolve into so many of its different forms in the wild.

On Wednesday I join up with my friend Alex, who is a human-interest writer at _Pokémon Pal_. We're working on a piece together about the Corviknight Taxi drivers of Galar. We interview them and ride along on several trips. I take portraits of every driver we interview with their Corviknights, as well as shots of the incredible views they get from the sky on a daily basis.

Thursday I head to Postwick, where Professor Sonia Magnolia leads me into the deepest reaches of Slumbering Weald, where a monument was recently discovered thought to mark where the first kings of Galar were crowned. It is a breathtaking place. The sky seems to have impossible colours here; the way the light filters through the trees and reflects on the water is unlike anywhere else I have seen. It is a photographer's dream.

Passho loves travelling, too. And she is a great help with my work. In university, I took several classes on making art with Pokémon, and quickly taught Passho a few moves we never would have thought to use back when we battled. Her Attract is great for making wild Pokémon more approachable; Sunny Day helps keep the weather in our favour. Passho has also developed an incredible control over her Moonblast—the one move from our Gym Challenge days that she still uses—to the point that we can use it as an additional light source in many low-light situations.

It is a wonderful week, but on Friday I go back to the hotel in Turffield. I give Passho a much-needed bath, and spend the rest of the afternoon sorting and editing photos on my laptop.

Mom offered to host dinner again, but I chose to order take-out from a Bob's Your Uncle. I don't want to deal with my father any more than I need to, and we're all going to see each other tomorrow anyway. Milo's got an exhibition match against Hop. We have tickets for the whole family, Pokémon included. I've never seen Hop battle before, but he did well at the last Champion Cup, and was also a key figure in the whole Chairman Rose–Darkest Day debacle. Should be a good fight. And I do want to see Mom again before I have to make my way back to Unova.

* * *

We arrive at the stadium nearly an hour before match time. My father is always worried that he won't get a good view. As we find our way to our seats, Mom deliberately positions herself so that I will end up sitting next to my father. I grimace as soon as I notice, but it would be too awkward to ask her to change seats with me, and my father would notice, so I go along with it. I put Passho on the seat between me and my father, as a buffer. Prince sits on Mom's lap, whereas Fuji gets his own seat on the other side of my father, although for now Fuji is flying around.

My father stays on his feet, with his back to the pitch, looking around the stands for the people he recognizes, his friends and stadium buddies that he watches matches with when Mom and I don't come along.

"So when you were travelling," my father asks, "did you have to pay for the Corviknight Taxis?"

"Well, yeah," I say, a little confused. "Doesn't everyone?"

"I mean for your interviews," he says with a laugh.

"The answer is still yes."

"Must have cost a lot for all those trips. What about when they had other passengers? Did you split the fare?"

"No, we covered the whole trip to make up for the inconvenience."

"Out of your own pocket? Are they going to reimburse you?"

"We had a budget just for that."

The conversation goes on like that for a while, my father asking meaningless questions and me giving him the answers he should already know. I guess it kills the time, at least.

* * *

"Welcome, Turffield," the announcer's voice booms from the loudspeakers, drawing _yeah_ s and _whoo_ s from the crowd. She goes through the routine of thanking the match sponsor and their broadcasting partners, but the usual speech thanking the Galar League organizers in general and Chairman Rose in particular has been trimmed down, for obvious reasons.

"On one side, we have our beloved Turffield Gym Leader—let's hear it for Milo," she says, and the crowd roars. Milo walks out onto the pitch, waving at the spectators, while we chant his name. _Miiiiiii-looooooo, Miiiiiii-looooooo!_

Before the cheers die down, the announcer picks up again: "And on the opposite side, the younger brother of our former champion, a Champion Cup semi-finalist himself and one of the Darkest Day Heroes of Galar—let's give a Turffield welcome to Hop!" The cheers are more mixed this time, with some _boo_ s from the locals, but also a lot of support for him. Some applaud politely; Mom and I join in a chant of, _Hop! Hop! Hop! Hop!_

On the field, the trainers confer with the referee, and before long the match is underway. It's a four-on-four battle, and it starts with Hop's Dubwool against Milo's Appletun. Milo gets to use his real team this time.

It's an even battle between two very defensive Pokémon, but Hop battles recklessly, and his overuse of Double Edge wears Dubwool down. With Recover, Appletun stays healthy long enough to defeat its opponent. At the strike of Appletun's last Dragon Pulse, the crowd erupts in a cheer. We jump to our feet—I hug Mom, and my father puts his hand on my shoulder.

Hop sends out his Pincurchin next. It hits hard with Poison Jab, and the toxins are clearly taking their toll on Appletun. But Pincurchin isn't defensive enough to survive too many hits of Apple Acid, and Appletun is victorious again. Milo's name echoes around the stadium, sung loudly and proudly. It is a very good start for him, one of the best performances I have seen from Milo and Appletun.

Hop must be feeling the pressure, because he chooses his starter Pokémon next, an Inteleon. It is a fast Pokémon, and Hop takes it on an all-out offensive blitz with Dark Pulse and Ice Beam. Milo doesn't stray from his counter-attack strategy, letting Inteleon get close before lashing back with Apple Acid, and taking every opportunity to Recover and stay in the game. It seems almost miraculous, but once again Appletun takes the win. Milo is up three–nil, and a win is only one more knockout away.

"Whatever happens next," I say, "this is a fantastic battle."

"It is," says my father. "But don't you count Hop out just yet. He's no pushover."

Hop smacks his own face with both hands, a gesture he got from his brother. _Concentrate_ , he seems to say.

His last Pokémon is a Corviknight.

Appletun is exhausted by now, despite—or may even because of—its repeated Recovers. Corviknight shrugs off Appletun's attempt at a Dragon Pulse, and with one quick hit of Steel Wing, Corviknight finally ends Appletun's sweep.

Hop punches the air. Milo sends Bellossom onto the field, and quickly instructs it to use Sunny Day.

"Is he trying to use Solarbeam faster?" I wonder out loud. "Solar Beam won't do much to Corviknight, but I don't think Bellossom knows anything better."

"It's not about Bellossom," my father says. "It's about Cherrim."

I hope my father is right, because Corviknight attacks with a brutal Drill Peck. A critical hit, I think—Bellossom is down in one hit. This battle may be more difficult than it seemed.

Milo hesitates for a moment, but makes the choice my father expected: Cherrim. Under the harsh light from the sun, it blossoms into its more powerful Sunshine Form. I'm still not sure what Milo's plan is, but Hop must understand it.

There's that rush. The sky darkens despite the sunlight; Corviknight glows and grows. But it changes, too—Gigantamax.

Then Cherrim does—again—what my father knew it would. It fires off a Weather Ball with incredible fire power. Corviknight must have taken a lot of damage but, Gigantamaxed, it hardly shows.

Hop sweeps his arm and Corviknight whips up a forceful G-Max Wind Rage, blowing even Milo himself off his feet. Cherrim is out. Hop has equalized.

Corviknight has taken hits, but not many; and with Milo's only fire-type move removed from the field, it will be a more uphill battle than ever.

Eldegoss comes out for the final matchup. It does not look good for Milo. My heart feels like a Rillaboom is in my chest. My father clasps his seat like he's trying to rip it off the stands.

This time, Milo doesn't hesitate, and triggers Eldegoss's dynamax right away.

In the flood of adrenaline, I have a moment of intense clarity. This battle—this moment—is special. I should be capturing it. I'm no battle photographer, and I'm sure there are plenty of professionals down in the field, but they are not in the stands. They don't have the perspective I have. My equipment is back at the hotel room, so I pull out my Rotom Phone. The camera on it is pretty good anyway.

I snap a photo of my father, but he waves the camera away. "Aren't you going to pay attention?" he asks. I ignore him and photograph Mom, the other spectators around us. And, yes, the giant Pokémon on the pitch, too.

Corviknight uses another Wind Rage, but Milo is prepared: Eldegoss uses Max Guard, and protects itself perfectly. Hop tries again—this time it lands. Eldegoss is blown backward, almost as if in slow motion. But it straightens up, and at a thrust of Milo's pointer, counters with a Max Overgrowth. Enormous mushrooms of natural energy erupt across the field, striking Corviknight and covering the pitch in a glowing green mist.

To Milo's advantage, Corviknight's Gigantamax energy has run out; it shrinks back to its natural size. It is more mobile now, but less powerful—a Drill Peck doesn't hurt Eldegoss as much.

And Eldegoss is still dynamaxed. It draws energy from the grassy terrain, and creates a second, even more powerful Max Overgrowth.

"Yeah!" my father yells. I take another photo of him, his face lit by the green glow of the Grassy Terrain. This time he doesn't care, or he doesn't notice. There is an intensity to his eyes. Nothing could pull them away from the field. Eldegoss's image appears on the stadium screen behind him.

Corviknight, smaller and weaker now, falls, but doesn't faint. As Eldegoss loses its dynamax energy, Corviknight pushes itself back onto its feet.

The battle turns tense. Both Pokémon have endured significant damage, but both are still standing. On one side, Corviknight: worn down, but resistant to Eldegoss's offense. On the other, Eldegoss: susceptible to Corviknight's aerial attacks, but strengthened by the terrain.

Both trainers turn defensive for a moment—Corviknight conjures up a Light Screen, Eldegoss protects itself with the fuzz of a Cotton Guard—but then launch into each other with a flurry of attacks. Drill Peck—Giga Drain—Steel Wing—Hyper Voice.

They wear each other down, slowly and evenly. Both Pokémon and their trainers are panting. I continue photographing, trusting the Rotom Phone's stabilizers to compensate for my jittering hands.

Corviknight swoops in for another Drill Peck. It could be the winning blow. But it is tired, sluggish. Before Corviknight can strike, Eldegoss blasts out one final Hyper Voice. It is just enough to send Corviknight off balance, crashing into the ground.

It does not get up. Milo and Eldegoss are victorious.

Around me, everyone is screaming, jumping, flailing their arms. Spectator's Pokémon and drinks fly over our heads. We're chanting Milo's name like never before. I hug Mom, I hug Passho, I hug my father. A stranger in the row in front of us turns around and I hug her too. We're all giving high-fives and screaming in glee like ten-year-olds.

On my phone screen, I show Mom the portrait I took of my father. His eyes are like a Sableye's, glittering with passion for the sport. Mom smiles and gives me another hug. She nods towards my father, so I show it to him as well.

He takes my phone in his own hands and stares at it. It feels like too long. But then he gives it back to me, smiling like a Mawile, and gives me a long, tight hug. "Beautiful," he says.

Then he turns around and yells Milo's name some more.


End file.
